


unfolds like spring

by Teroe



Series: daycare au [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daycare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, and clexa bein happy, kids bein cute, that me aesthetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:05:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/pseuds/Teroe
Summary: They say things get easier with timeor more of the daycare au





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have no self-discipline so here we are. there's no real goal for this, just snippets that won't leave my head. If there's something you would like to see, moments you're curious about, send me message over @kokkoro on tumblr or post it in the comments! I'll do as much as i can.

“It’s just a little get-together.” Clarke eyes you from her perch on the arm of the couch, more than a little amused as she watches you attempt to wrangle your hair into a loose braid. “Drinks and comfy clothes and some music. Maybe a bit of friendly poker, but it's nothing. They’ll love you.”

“They’ve never met me.”

Clarke snorts. “Raven would beg to differ.”

You blink owlishly at her, hands stuck in your hair. The insinuation causes this warmth to spread through your chest. “You talk about me?”

“A lot,” Clarke says, fiddling with her sleeve. She pushes off from the couch, wanders into your space, and your skin prickles at the proximity, electric. Your arms drop back to your side and her mouth curls in this barely contained grin as she reaches out to straighten the drawstrings of your sweatshirt. “But only when you’re not around.”

You settle your hands softly on her hips and you can feel her breathe, stomach to stomach. You want her all around you. “Is that so?”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not.”

“Mmhmm, sure,” she manages, her smile knowing, and you lean in and kiss her. Her mouth tastes like those sunny days where the warmth is just enough to smother the chill, infectious and comforting. It’s the easiest thing to get lost in.

You exhale noisily through your nose and Clarke’s laugh is lost against your lips. She tries to catch her breath in between each touch, but it’s difficult with your hands under her shirt and the giggles unrelenting.

“S-stop.” Her voice bubbles and she hides her face against your neck to muffle the laughter. “Lexa--”

Your lips find her mouth, the side of her chin, her jaw, your hips leading her until her back finds the edge of the kitchen island and Clarke gasps into your mouth at the sudden contact. She nips playfully at your bottom lip, but the tiny surprising sting it causes is enough for you to pull away.

Clarke’s hand on your chest is quick to stop your return. “We have plans." Her breathing is uneven and rough, the hand not holding you back running through her hair. She pushes lightly against you, leveling you with a stare. “And you hate being late.”

You stare at her lips, glancing at her eyes and then back down, your heart a heavy beat against your ribs. That doesn’t mean she’s any better at controlling herself than you are. She leans in and it’s this brief touch of lips, but it's soft and sweet.

“Don’t forget the cookies,” she says. You figure there are worse ways to lose.

 

* * *

 

The party is at a friend of Clarke’s that is by association, however convoluted, also a friend of yours. You know Lincoln through Anya and the daycare. He helped out for a few months a couple of years ago before leaving to become a full time grade-school teacher, and it’s been awhile since you’ve seen him last, but not much has changed. You remember Octavia, Lincoln’s wife, only because Anya likes to keep you up to date on the little things. What you don’t remember is the baby.

“Oh my god, Octavia,” Clarke coos the second she’s through the door. “He’s so _tiny_.”

Octavia’s face is tired but content, the baby tucked close to her chest. His little eyes are wide, watching the building commotion with rapt attention. “Only three months and already kicking my ass is more like it.”

“Octavia,” Clarke admonishes.

“What? It’s not like he knows.”

“Octavia,” comes Lincoln’s voice from the kitchen. He’s still putting the finishing touches on the chili, dish towel thrown over his shoulder, but the look he shoots Octavia’s way only makes her smile wider.

“Alright, hand him over,” Raven says, standing from her kitchen chair. She hobbles over to Octavia, plucking the baby from her and ignoring Octavia’s exaggerated eye roll as she nudges her over to the counter. “Help your hubby, I wanna eat sometime before the end of the year.”

“Whatever.” Octavia smirks, instead taking a detour towards Clarke and envelopes her in a hug.

“It’s been a while,” you hear Clarke say, soft against Octavia’s hair, and Octavia pats her back, giving a little squeeze.

“Too long,” Octavia says. She pulls away, giving Clarke a small smile, before setting her sights on you. “Nice to finally meet you, Lexa. I've heard a lot about you.”

Clarke glances at you only to regret it, cheeks a little flushed and her hand rubbing the back of her neck, avoiding your eyes. “Have you?”

Octavia grins. “Oh boy have I.”

Clarke pinches her side and Octavia laughs, swatting away Clarke’s hands. “Where’s Bell?” Clarke attempts as a way of diversion. “I thought he was coming.”

“He’s coming,” Raven says in between quiet baby-talk. The little boy gurgles back and Raven kisses his cheek. “He’ll be fifteen minutes late with whisky but he’s coming. Or he owes me fifty bucks and his nephew.”

Octavia yells something over her shoulder about her brother and having no right using her kid as a bargaining chip, and the apartment settles into what you would consider to be the epitome of controlled chaos. The sharp scent of chili as it simmers and the heat from the stove seeps into the room, it fills to the far corners. Octavia goes about putting together a simple macaroni salad, talking offhandedly to Clarke, and you’re left watching at the edge.

“You want me to take those off your hands?” Lincoln says beside you, wiping his hands with the towel and then gesturing to the plate of cookies you and Clarke had made.

You hand it to him. “Thanks.”

“How are you?” There’s a weight to his words he tries to tip-toe around, but for all his subtly you can hear it loud and clear. He knows, most of the people in this room probably do except for Raven even if they don’t know you personally. It feels exposing, and your eyes drift to stare at your feet, but you inhale slowly through your nose and look back up. You find Clarke, her smile broad, cheeks still flushed as she helps Octavia put Pillsbury biscuits into the oven and you feel your heart flutter.

“Happy,” you decide. Because it's true.

“Good,” Lincoln says with a genuine smile. “I’m glad.” There’s a pause, but it's welcome as the both of you keep an eye on things from afar. “Is Anya stopping by?”

“She said she might,” you say. “Her father’s in town, they were getting together for lunch.”

“Well there’s more than enough food if she does so…” He gives a little shrug. “And you.” He points. “Don’t be a stranger. Make yourself at home, we’re all family here.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

He places a hand on your shoulder and then wanders away to find a place for the cookies. By the time the table is set and you’ve helped gathered all the chairs the biscuits are done, and Clarke takes them out with a towel and her sweatshirt sleeve. She catches you watching and smirks guiltily.

You all sit down with bowls of chili and a side plate of macaroni salad. Octavia feeds Conner baby food in his little highchair situated next to her, but more often then not half of it doesn’t make it into his mouth, spit back up and dribbling down his chin. He giggles as his mother attempts to salvage what she can with the little spoon she holds in her hand.

“Knock it off you little punk,” Octavia says, but his laughs just get louder and her smile just gets wider.

Clarke steals a spoonful of your chili when she’s all done with hers, smirking around the spoon in her mouth. You lean in to kiss her cheek without thinking about it. It's an action that comes all too naturally to you, and you feel self-conscious--anxious at the reaction, but it's accepted without comment. You see little smiles hidden behind napkins and the small tilt to Clarke’s lips that’s a second away from stretching across her face as she leans in to snatch another biscuit from the basket in the middle of the table.

You turn to look at your plate and you feel so warm.

Dinner passes slowly. Sometime during second helpings Raven manages to kidnap Conner from his highchair and he sits in her lap. He reaches out in an attempt to smear his hands in her half finished bowl of chili but she stops him every time.

The door clatters open then, and the man you assume is Bellamy stumbles in. He has an unopened bottle of whisky in his hand and Lincoln whistles appreciatively. “What did I miss?”

Raven bounces the baby on her knee. Conner looks up at her and she looks back at him very seriously. “And here I thought I was going to be one kid and fifty bucks richer.”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Dinner. You missed Dinner.”

“It's not too late,” he says, setting down the alcohol on the counter and fishing out a bowl from the cupboard. He stops, suddenly serious, and turns towards the table. “I didn’t miss poker did I?”

Octavia flings a spoonful of some of the leftover baby food, but it falls short by about two feet. It makes Bellamy jump regardless.

“They’re a bunch of kids,” Clarke whispers in your ear, leaning into your side.

Your head dips, grin matching hers. “Our kids are much more well behaved than this.”

“You two over there with the matching smirks.” Octavia points at the both of you from across the table. “I heard that.”

Clarke presses her lips to your shoulder, chuckling. She pushes herself up a moment later, gathering both of your plates and bowls. After she deposits everything in the sink she nudges Bellamy (who was standing out of the way eating his bowl of chili) towards the table. “Sit,” she says, gesturing to her now empty seat.

Bellamy spoons another heaping of chili into his mouth, but listens, eyeing Octavia warily as he gets closer. He slumps into the chair next to you, bowl cradled against his stomach. All that’s left of the food by now is the leftover chili in the crockpot, just little scraps left on the table as the rest of the group finishes. You enjoy the chatter, that offbeat background noise as the food settles in your stomach, but it's only when Clarke makes her way back that you realize you were missing something.

She settles into the chair with you, not needing to ask but she does in that silent way you’ve grown used to--that little crease to her brow and the small pleading look in her eyes. You find it endearing that she even feels the need to ask. Your arms wrap around her, pulling her close against you.

Clarke idly pats the back of your hand resting over her stomach. “How’s my girl?” she says quietly to you. You hum contentedly in lieu of a response and Clarke accepts it with a gentle squeeze of your hand.

Bellamy rushes through the last few bites of his chili, setting down his bowl with a triumphant thud as he stands. “You guys ready to get your asses kicked in poker?”

“Bellamy,” Clarke is quick to scold, but she’s drowned out by Octavia and Raven’s loud and offended guffaws.

“Whisky?” he asks Lincoln, ignoring the peanut gallery as they plot his demise. He nods and Bellamy grins before turning in your direction. “What about you Clarke? Lexa? Up for a shot of whisky?”

“Yeah, sure,” Clarke says, bold.

“Lexa?”

You shake your head, eyeing that familiar look of determination on Clarke’s face. You have a feeling you’ll be finishing Clarke’s forgotten shot anyway.

They play poker with change. After the shots are handed out, Bellamy lugs a large jar from the cupboards and deals out one-hundred pennies, twenty nickels, ten dimes, and four quarters to the lot of you. You spectate, stuck behind Clarke and too content to move, but she discreetly shows you her cards after the first deal.

You look around the table, studying the small smirk on Bellamy’s face, and the quiet pensiveness to Lincoln's brow. Octavia looks mildly perturbed and Raven talks seriously to the slowly tiring baby still seated in her lap. The odds look to be in your favor.

It’s a five card draw, deuces wild, of which Clarke has two. Her highest card is a queen, the others a four and a ten. “What do you think?”

“Hey, hey,” Octavia cuts in, and you both look up, amused. “There will be no underhanded alliances at this table, thank you very much.”

“We’re not cheating,” Clarke says calmly, rearranging the cards in her hand. “We’re playing to our strengths.”

“Sounds like cheating to me.”

“You can’t cheat at poker that way, Raven.”

After two draws, Clarke wins the round with a four-of-a-kind and she leans forward in your hold to drag the pot towards herself, a confident grin wedging itself firmly in place as she makes a show of stacking her newly acquired money in tiny five coin piles. She drums her fingers expectantly against the table as Lincoln shuffles before his deal and Bellamy sits up straighter in his seat, too proud to admit defeat this early in the game.

Halfway through Texas Hold’em, and you’re pretty sure Clarke doesn’t need any help at all. She plows through with minimal losses and significant gain. It only slows to a stand-still when Raven decides it's time for a distraction and deposits a tired Conner into Clarke’s lap on her way to the bathroom during a short break in between a few rounds of Blackjack.

And it works, unsurprisingly. It’s the first chance Clarke has gotten at holding the baby and her attention is undivided. She loses near a dollar in change in a few quick unlucky rounds, but she makes Conner laugh twice and you know she has no intention of getting him to let go of her fingers. By now your lap is more than a little numb, but you also know there’s no way you’d change any of this.

“He’s cute,” you say into Clarke’s shoulder and she laughs softly, glancing down at the baby and wiggling her no doubt numb fingers, before looking back up at the game. His face scrunches at the disturbance, a pout slow to form, but you can tell where this is headed. “Let me take him for a bit.”

Clarke looks over her shoulder at you, eyes searching your face. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” She stands, holding Conner, and your muscles prickle when rise to your feet. You stretch minutely, before holding out your hands for the baby and Clarke settles him gently in your hold. He’s soft and warm and his little hands reach instinctively for the drawstrings of your sweater.

“He likes to chew on things,” Octavia says as a way of warning despite the affection in her voice. Conner is already drawing the strings to his mouth.

You tug them away once, but he reaches for them again, unperturbed. This time you let him. “Noted, thank you.”

There’s a small armchair not too far away with a line of sight to the table and you sit with him against your chest and his head on your shoulder. Away from the noise and the movement he grows quiet and still, little hands letting go of the strings to grasp the fabric of your sweatshirt. He’s out in a few minutes and you let out a quiet breath.

The poker game continues in your absence, the voices getting harder to pick apart the more comfortable you get. You focus on Clarke, though--on that roughness to her voice the longer the night goes on, stealing peeks when you manage to pry open your eyes and check on her. More often than not she’s looking back, elbow propped on the table and head in her hand, smile half hidden in her palm. Her eyes dart from you to the cards in her hand and then back again, until she gives up pretenses and stares back, grin stretching across her face. Only when Bellamy flicks her on the shoulder, telling her it's her turn to deal, does she manage more than a minute of concentration.

It doesn’t last longer than that, however.

“This is it, we’ve lost her,” you hear Raven mutter, and then a quick, “Dibs on her money.”

“Shut up, Raven.” Clarke’s chair scrapes against the hardwood and you watch her make her way over to where you have begun to nod off. She sits on the arm, notes the growing patch of drool on your shoulder with a affectionate smirk as she tries to tame the tuft of hair on the little boy’s head. “You’ve made a new friend.”

“Jealous?” you tease.

“A little,” she says.

“You’re more than welcome to join.”

Clarke glances over her shoulder at the temporary lull in festivities. Bellamy’s gotten up to refill the drinks, clinking about in the kitchen while Raven sits reclined at the table. Lincoln has wandered off to the bathroom, and you don’t notice Octavia until she appears near Clarke. She gestures to Conner, and you lift him up as gently as you can.

“Bed time, little man,” Octavia says, tucking him against her chest. He wiggles to get comfortable and then relaxes. Soon she’s down the hall and out of sight.

Without any further deterrent, Clarke slips in beside you. She ends up more on you than not--her face hidden in your neck, careful of the damp patch on your opposite shoulder, and one leg is casually thrown over your own. She can’t seem to figure out what to do with her right hand so she stuffs it into the front pocket of your sweatshirt and leaves it at that.

You can already feel yourself slipping under. “What happened to the game?”

“It’s break time,” she mutters into your neck.

You hum against her hair, and this heaviness sinks into your chest. It’s grounding and welcome and it makes you feel whole and so very much _here_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, prompts/questions more than welcome! hope you enjoy.

“What’s kissing like?”

For all intents and purposes it’s a normal Thursday morning, so that is to say you’re more than a bit thrown off by the question. It’s out of nowhere, and in the chaos that is morning freeplay your attention is divided at least seven different ways, but there’s a genuine curiosity to Temple’s voice that makes you stop and stare. She looks at you as if all the answers sprout from the tips of your fingers like magic. The truth is you’ve never felt more out of your league.

“It depends,” you say. Across the room Clarke catches the tail end of the conversation and you see the confused yet intrigued look she shoots your way. Her lips are this weasley little smirk and you try not to focus on the way your heart picks up running.

“Why?” Temple urges, and you turn back to her.

“Well,” you say, squatting so you’re at her eye level. “There’s different types of kisses.”

Temple’s brows scrunch together, her mouth twisting. “Why?”

“So they can mean different things,” you reply, and Temple looks at you confused. She doesn’t say anything in response, but the crease to her forehead is a tell-tale sign of her frustration as her young mind tries to make sense of this new concept. The why’s have stopped for the moment at least, so you clear your throat and explain. “It can mean hello or goodbye--”

“Really?” Temple interrupts.

You nod, a quirk to your lips, and then continue. “They can mean thank you, or I love you... They can show you care about someone--as a way to be close to them...” You trail off and it takes everything in you to not look over at Clarke. You can hear her over on the other side of the room with a few of the kids, chatting about movies and superheroes and far off places. “So most of the time it’s soft. But it can be electric and uplifting--it’s about expressing something you can’t find the words for.”

“Why?” Temple says again, and you think you’ve lost her for good now.

“It’s hard to explain why.” You think it's impossible actually. Something indefinable and everything all at once. “It’s different for everybody. Some people like it, some people don’t, it’s about what makes you and the person you care about comfortable--what makes them happy. When you care about someone you want them to be happy, right?”

"Kissing makes you happy?”

“It does. When it’s with the right person.”

“Like my mom and dad!” Temple says, things starting to click together, and she pats her forehead with her palm. “They kiss me goodnight and it makes me happy!”

A smile stretches across your face and your cheeks ache. “Yes, like that.”

“They kiss each other too,” she says, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this kind of conversation.

“It’s another form of love, yes.”

“Different from my love?”

“In a way.”

She considers this, the gears in her head turning, and then very earnestly asks, “Do you kiss Miss Clarke?”

The question makes you pause, but it doesn’t surprise you. For a moment, you look down to pick at something under your nail while you think, as a way to calm the sudden restlessness you feel. But something in you settles, too, and it’s an oddly comforting feeling.

“I do,” you say, and it's nearly a confession stripped straight from your teeth, but you say it with a smile that threatens to devour you whole. Temple's eyes light up, giddy, and she grins at you like you’ve let her in on a big secret that she is more than happy to keep. You like to think it’s because she understands in her own way. Or maybe your love for Clarke isn’t as subtle as you make it seem.

“She loves you, too,” Temple states with a small determined nod of her head. Her hands curl into your sleeve and tug, making sure you're still focused on her.

Your smile widens, and god, you think. Life is worth living for moments like these. “You think so?”

She bounces on the balls of her feet, her excitement tangible. “I do, I do!”

“Well, thank you.”

She beams. “You’re welcome!”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” you ask in the sudden lull, and Temple thinks for a moment before shaking her head. You shoo her off and she rushes over to Jenna without a moment’s hesitation. You rise to your feet, watching as she sidles up to Jenna and they both dissolve into giggles. And maybe, you think, you see Temple press the softest, gentlest kiss to the side of Jenna’s head.

Clarke joins you by the kids table not too long later. She leans into you, presses her mouth to your shoulder in that way she does when she’s thinking. Or trying to hide her amusement. “Care to tell me what that was about?”

“Sorry,” you say, not really sorry, and you turn to place a brief kiss on her forehead. “That’s confidential.”

 

* * *

 

“You love me.”

The words are soft and muttered in the haze of late afternoon, only sinking in when the weight above you sets in. You hum, body still heavy and half asleep from your nap cut short, but her voice draws you from the deep like the sun strings the moon across the sky. You’re desperate to follow.

“I do,” you mumble sleepily, face down against the couch and still not quite ready to open your eyes. Her fingers find the edge of your shirt, rolling the fabric between her fingers and you stretch despite the lack of movement currently available to you. You don’t mind though, the extra weight is more than welcome.

Your shirt is hiked up an inch, and the strip of skin bared to world prickles at the rush of air. The tips of her fingers find the patterns inked into your skin, tracing idly. “You love me,” she repeats, and it’s full of wonder.

“I love you,” you say, and she finds where your shirt collar hangs low, that spot at which your neck and shoulder meet, and presses a kiss there. The beginnings of your voice rumbles in your chest when she does it again, but it doesn’t find it's way out your mouth. You bask in that warmth you feel until the heat becomes close to overwhelming and you open your eyes, blinking wearily over your shoulder at Clarke straddling your lower back.

She peels your shirt up another few inches and when you speak up your voice is gravelly and coated in fatigue. “What’re you doing?”

“That’s confidential,” she says, your shirt now bunched up to your shoulder-blades, caught under your breasts, and her lips find the middle of your spine. You feel tingly--all consumed and loved.

You shift, pulling your right arm out from where it was trapped under your stomach, and brace your hand against the couch to push yourself up. Clarke stops you, hands firm on your upper back, and your laugh gets caught in your throat and then lost into the throw pillow.

So you let yourself be loved, enjoying the feel of Clarke’s hands and lips across your back and neck. Her nails are dull and her mouth is soft and you melt into the couch boneless and unaware of the time. It could be minutes, it could hours or days, but you think in years. In decades and centuries. How time not spent with her close to you is time wasted.

And there’s always room to be closer. You move under her, sluggish at first and still hazy with love, and as a result it’s easy to thwart. She holds you still, her hands on your hips to steady herself, but you need to kiss her or you’ll surely die.  She moves left the same time as you do, though, and there’s really no stopping it as the both of you tumble off the couch and onto the floor.

It’s a miracle neither of you knock your head on the edge of the coffee table. Clarke is all breathy laughter, distracted and a perhaps a little high on the feeling of you, and you take advantage of the confusion and pin her under you. You kiss her cheeks, then her lips--her jaw and neck--and then you do it again, slower this time. Her skin is sweet and soft from her shower, hair still a bit damp, and her pulse flutters a quick beat under your mouth. It's something you savor, her hands warm over your skin, shirt still stuck and scrunched up under your arms. She runs her fingers over your ribs, along your sides, and then digs in, pulling you closer by your back.

“You’re maddening,” she breathes out just in time before she’s swallowed up in you.

So you slow down even further. A kiss that lingers, that ebbs and pushes, that draws and releases, and then you pull away. You watch her attempt to catch her breath, lungs working double, chest rising and falling and your eyes get stuck on the dip of her collarbones where her old college shirt hangs low.

And then you lean in again.

Her ‘I love you’ is quiet and almost to herself, whispered as you lean in as if it will bring you back sooner. Against the backdrop of your thrift-shop rug--stuck between the coffee table, the couch, and you--she seems otherworldly, something you caught by mistake or happenstance. But she loves you, and there is something so incredibly marvelous about that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill with a festive touch, and as always feel free to send more. happy holidays!

Clarke’s parents live in a two story country house tucked away in northern Pennsylvania. It’s at the end of this windy unplowed dirt road, and with the snow piling up, there comes a certain relief in shifting your small car into park next to the partially buried SUV in the driveway. The lights are on inside, spilling out onto the porch, and the string of christmas lights wrapped around the railing glows bright in the dead of winter.

You cut the ignition and the heat disappears with it. “We made it,” you say despite the obviousness of the statement. Outside, the snow falls silently, already beginning to stick to the windshield of your car

Clarke doesn’t move. She rolls the fabric of her sleeve between her fingers, focused on her lap. You're not sure she’s listening until she shifts, glancing at you before returning her attention to her hands. “Thank you,” she says softly, having nothing left to hide behind, “for coming with me.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, Clarke.”

“I know,” she breathes out, wringing her hands together.

You lean across the console and press your lips softly against her jaw, lingering for a moment before pulling away to unbuckle your seatbelt. It zips back into place with a whirl and you stuff the keys in your pocket as you shoulder the door open. The briskness bites, its presence immediate and surrounding, but fresh. Snow clings stubbornly to your hair and jacket, and you stretch the stiffness from your limbs the second you get to your feet. Your back pops audibly, the hours spent sitting in the driver’s seat taking their toll, and you exhale, breath clouding in front of your face.

You wander around to dig through the trunk for your bags. You get one slung across your back and another over your shoulder when Clarke appears and snatches the third from your hands, shouldering it herself. She gives you an exasperated look, but you smile and fall a little bit more in love with her.

The snow crunches under your feet as you shift, waiting as she gathers the small handbag of toiletries, and then the tinfoil covered platter you secured before you left with some well placed towels. She juggles all of it masterfully, and you brush aside the lock of hair that falls in front of her face.

“Thanks,” she says, and even in the dim light from the porch you can tell her face is already red from the cold. “Now can we get this over with, I’m freezing.”

You chuckle, kissing the tip of her frosted nose, and then shut the trunk with a shove. It’s an awkward walk towards the door, hindered by all the bags and the slippery steps up onto the porch. You nearly trip, your eyes on Clarke hobbling next to you, her hair a rainbow of colors in the christmas lights, instead of where they should be. You catch yourself on the railing though, laughing at the absurdity of it all, and for a moment Clarke forgets and smiles with you.

But it doesn’t last forever, and you watch Clarke reach for the doorknob and hesitate. Her fingers shake and you see the shiver she stops short in her shoulders, exhales through her mouth and pushes on. She doesn’t knock, merely twists the handle and you follow close behind.

The lights are warm inside, dim and just right, and you follow suit as Clarke toes off her shoes and places them on a mat by the door. A flight of stairs is in front of you, leading up to the second floor. To your left is the den, and that room alone appears to be as big as your apartment. You get distracted by the crack and pop of a fire and the impressive christmas tree situated in the corner, the couches inviting, but you're drawn away by the quick clack of paws on hardwood. You watch as Clarke puts aside the tinfoil covered dish on the small end-table by the door and then squats to welcome their first host.

“Sammy, my boy,” she murmurs affectionately at the large ball of fluff that comes hurtling from the kitchen and dining room to your right. He skids short of toppling her over, his body one constant wiggle. “Look at how big you are. You’ve grown so much.”

She weaves her fingers through his fur and his tongue lolls happily at the attention. You let the bag on your shoulder slip until it's resting on the floor, free from the weight for a second as Clarke says her hello’s.

“Clarke?”

You both look up at the sound, but Clarke is the first to look away. Her sights settle back on Sammy who waits patiently for the pets to continue, which they do. And so does the voice.

“Clarke, is that you?”

Clarke rubs Sammy’s floppy ears between her fingers and his eyes droop, tail a blur over the floor. You know what’s coming, but that doesn’t mean Clarke doesn’t wait until the last possible moment to acknowledge the inevitable.

When Abby finally appears around the corner, she stops and looks at you with a peculiar apprehension. Her hands are clasped in front of her stomach, tense, and your posture straightens under the scrutiny. She drags her eyes away, studying her daughter crouched with the dog.

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest, Clarke.”

Your eyes widen slightly, focusing on Clarke who suddenly finds the softness of the fur beneath her fingers to be captivating. She looks thoroughly reprimanded despite the words unsaid, cheeks growing more red than the cold usually allows. It reaches her ears, her hands growing still until they stop completely, knotted in fur. The dog barks softly, this rumbled ‘boof’ that is a reprimand all it's own, but Clarke pats his head one last time and stands.

She grabs the plate from the side table and holds it in front of her like a sorry excuse for a shield she knows it is, shoulders scrunched up. You’d hold her hand if there was one free for you to take. “Sorry... I guess I forgot.”

Abby sighs, shaking her head, and finally her hands unclench. “You don’t need to be sorry,” she says. “A warning would have been nice, though.” She gestures for the plate and Clarke hands it over wordlessly. She inches the tinfoil back, taking a peak. “You must be Lexa.”

You clear your throat, waiting for Abby to look up from the careful inspection of the plate. She does eventually, and you hold her stare. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She gives a small smile and it's softer than you expect. Tired, and the corner of her eyes wrinkle. “The guest room upstairs is all set for you. It might be a bit small for two,” Abby gives you one last onceover. “But I’m sure you’ll make it work.”

You nudge Clarke with your elbow, and she turns, eyeing your outstretched hand curiously. “Let me,” you say, and it takes her a moment, but Clarke relinquishes her duffle, along with her jacket and the small bag of toiletries. You lift the one on the floor back onto your shoulder. “Which door?”

“It’s on the right.”

You nod your understanding and then excuse yourself, trudging up the steps more than aware of the eyes on your back. The door to the right of the landing squeaks when you open it. There’s not much inside besides a twin bed pushed up against the far wall under the window, a desk that’s more of a home for the potted plants that decorate the top, and a dresser that you find to be empty. You place the bags and your jackets on top, and the weight lifts from your shoulders and back.

You head back downstairs after everything is situated, feeling awkward by yourself in a room of house you’ve never been. Besides the soft christmas music on the radio, it’s quiet downstairs too, Clarke and her mother side by side in the kitchen but oddly silent. It feels like you’re intruding somehow, and the longer you take the harder it becomes to assimilate back into the thick of things.

Abby rinses dishes in the sink, the lingering scent of food still fresh in the air. “Kane will be home soon. There was some leftover work at the office.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything, taking the dishes as they’re done and drying them with a dish towel. She places them is groups, cups and bowls, plastic containers and their lids, pots and pans--

“I can make you something?” Abby tries, glancing at Clarke. “There’s homemade pudding in the fridge for tomorrow. I know it’s late, but you must be hungry.”

You slip into the kitchen then nearly silent, but Clarke’s attention averts to you as if she somehow knew. She looks so relieved and Abby turns back to the dishes, finishing the last of the silverware.

Off in the distance, the front door opens again, and the dog resting by Clarke’s feet bolts up and rushes past you, collar tags jingling. You see a man by the door, shoulders and graying hair dusted with snow, but he grins, ruffling the dog’s fur playfully. “The ladies treating you alright, boy?” He laughs when the dogs barks, giving another affectionate scratch between his ears. “Of course they are.”

When he looks up, the man is more than a little confused to find you hovering by the kitchen.

“Honey, this is Lexa--”

“Clarke’s Lexa?” The confusion clears and he perks up, looking from you to Clarke and then back again. You’re not sure what to make of the excitement in his tone.

Abby wipes the suds from her hands on an extra towel. “That would be the one.”

“And here I thought we’d never see the day.” He tugs off his gloves, stuffs them into his coat pockets, and holds out his hand. “We weren’t expecting anyone besides Clarke tonight, but it's a pleasure. I’m Marcus.”

You give a firm shake, aware of Clarke’s hand curling into the wool of your sweater near your lower back and her presence beside you. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“The drive up not too bad?” He lets go of your hand, finally taking a moment to shuck off his jacket. “It must have been, what, ten hours or so?”

“Closer to fifteen, actually.”

“No,” he says, incredulous.

“We hit traffic.” Nearly three hours of it near Albany, New York. So you stopped to get a late lunch and play musical seats. When you were back on the road Clarke slept through nearly all of the I-88, full from food and warm from the heat of the car. She woke up near Belmont more than a little groggy, drool inching its way down her chin, and this little upward tilt to your lips is impossible to stop. “But it wasn’t so bad.”

Clarke pinches your lower back, a subtle warning, before going about putting away the clean dishes in their assigned place. That doesn’t deter you as much as it encourages you, and Marcus smiles knowingly at you. “I’m assuming Abby already offered up the contents of our fridge?”

“Not everything,” Abby is quick to respond. “Most of it is for tomorrow, you know.”

Marcus looks to Clarke. “Did she tell you she made pudding?”

“Marcus--”

Clarke nods, reaching up above over the stove to open the cabinet for the pans. It’s slow and practiced, as if she’s done it before half asleep with her eyes closed. “She did.” The clink of glass and ceramic rings dull and methodical. “I’m good though.”

A slight frown pulls at the corner of Abby’s mouth. She runs a hand through her loose hair, pulls the strands from her face, and it's smothered from existence in a matter of seconds, composure slipping into place.

“Well. I’m gonna go put these away before I get yelled at,” Marcus says, cutting the silence, his jacket bundled in his arms. He looks down at his boots and the snow sloshed footprints he left in a trail from the the front door and winces. It makes Abby smile this small little thing.

He makes it halfway towards the hallway, the dog close on his heels, before turning around. “It really is nice to have you both here with us.”

Without Marcus, the silence creeps in again and there’s not much to do besides help put away the last of the dishes. Clarke directs you with patient hands. In the space allotted it’s necessary, but the way her fingers linger on your hip, holding the edges of your sweater until you’re no longer within her reach, you know better. She keeps you close even then, but it’s nothing short of a dance watching Clarke work around her mother, and if the reappearing frown on Abby's face is any indication, you're not the only one.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s quiet, a breath pulled deep from the stomach that loses its courage halfway out the mouth. What’s left is the sadness and the shortness of breath as Abby tries to reel in the words again. But she’s stuck on repeat.

“I’m so sorry, Clarke.”

You feel Clarke’s right hand find your left, fingers threading your yours. She squeezes, testing the give, and you squeeze back.

When you look at her next to you, shoulders slumped but somehow tense and fighting the urge to bump her forehead against your shoulder, the stress is still very much apparent. You’re still not quite sure why. There are problems, you know that much, but there has been progress. Curt little conversations that you’ve been privy to over the course of the last few months. They’re civil--practically pleasant on those occasions when you’re draped over Clarke on the couch back home, voice calm as she talks to her mother over the phone about her day.

It’s different when it's face to face, you realize. But there are some wars only won head on.

“I know that doesn’t....” Abby falters, fingers knotted together. “....excuse anything. I just. I want you to know. That’s all.”

Clarke’s grip tightens and the releases. You feel like a buffer between the two, a shield or a looking glass, and the moment Clarke turns her face into your shoulder, exhaling this long sigh, something starts to give.

“Apology accepted,” she says, and it's guarded and full of a stoicism conditioned over years, but the relief on Abby’s face is as clear as day.

“It’s nice to have you home,” Abby starts, her voice full of hope. Flutters like the lights in her eyes, the carols gentle on the radio. “Merry Christmas, Clarke.”

“It’s still Christmas Eve, Mom.”

“I know.” She smiles at Clarke. “I haven’t gotten a chance to say that in years and I don’t want to miss it.”

Clarke is quiet beside you for a moment, and you watch a slight pinch build between her brows until it softens with a sigh. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

Abby keeps her distance despite how much it seems like she doesn’t want to, arms clasped around her middle, as if she’s afraid of scaring Clarke more than she already has. You can tell Clarke appreciates it. Her vice grip on your hand means she wasn’t going far without you in tow anyway, and you’ve never been too fond of group hugs.

“The family should be over around two?” Abby says. “Dinner at five. You know the drill.”

Clarke nods. “I remember.”

Goodnights are said not too long later, after Marcus comes back and you both claim fatigue. Sammy tries to follow you up the stairs, but is quick to be scolded. (“he’s not allowed upstairs,” Marcus says with a grin. “Not until he stops chewing the furniture.”)

Clarke grabs the small bag of toothbrushes and toothpaste, and you stand shoulder to shoulder in the upstairs bathroom because you can. She catches your stare in the mirror, hair pulled back from her face as she moisturises, and shakes her head, smiling. It takes her all of ten minutes to finish and you’re not too far behind. You follow her out of the bathroom once your done and both of you make your way back to the guest room.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Clarke exhales softly into the darkness. Without the light from the hall, you don’t know where to start looking for the lightswitch, and after a few moments of unsuccessful fumbling, Clarke finally puts you out of your misery with well trained aim. The light flickers on, settles dully over the room in a soft orange glow and Clarke wastes no time in peeling off her jeans, kicking them from around her ankles and towards the general direction of the dresser.

You watch her fondly, stuck in place. Her sweatshirt is that too large one she got at a thrift shop, the word Cambridge embroidered on the front. It hangs low on her, loose around the neck and stopping near her upper thighs. You stole it once to see what the fuss was about, and the only way Clarke was able to get it back was to take it off you herself.

(you may have borrowed it a few times after that, but only because the wrestling that ensued was quickly becoming one of your favorite leisure time activities)

She quirks an eyebrow at you when she wanders close and your hands reach for her sides, curling your fingers into the excess fabric. A challenge etches itself into the subtle motion, daring, but you know better than to pick a fight you know you won’t win.

“Mistletoe,” you say, gesturing with an upward tilt of your head.

Clarke snorts soft and short through her nose, hands moving to unbutton your pants and pull at your sweater where it had been tucked in. She doesn’t even look up. “You can’t use that excuse every time you want to kiss me.”

“So far it's been working pretty well,” you say, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Clarke lasts three seconds (you count them) and then kisses you, quick and chaste and just lips.

“Next time there actually has to be a mistletoe.”

You shimmy out of your pants, smile stretching from ear to ear. Clarke helps you out of your sweater once you’ve draped your pants neatly over the desk chair. “I mean it,” she says when the sweater’s been pulled over your head and you’re left in your underwear, hair a curly mess over your shoulders. “Or you could, I don’t know, cut out the middle-man and just kiss me instead.”

So you do, on her cheek, and an exasperated grin tilts Clarke’s lips. You turn around with a chuckle and unclasp your bra, and once it’s stuffed back into your bag, you dig out a sleep shirt and slip it on over your head. When you turn back around, Clarke’s shoulders are scrunched up to her ears, cheeks a tad flushed, legs bare in the cold, and probably desperate for a little warmth.

You give her another kiss just because, and her shoulders relax a little bit. “You did fine.”

Another snort, and Clarke rolls her eyes. “Beside the whole not telling you that you weren’t actually invited.”

Your lips quirk and her hands curl into your shirt. “Besides that.” You study Clarke’s face, watching and waiting until you’re sure she has nothing else to say. “How much do they know?”

“..... Enough?” She scrunches her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “I guess?” She slumps, exhaling this sigh as she tugs the edges of your shirt. “They never really asked for details. Probably thought I wouldn’t tell them even if they did.”

“Would you?”

Clarke’s face grows somber. “Maybe.” She shrugs again. “I don’t know. It would mean allowing them back in and I wasn’t -- I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”

“You have time,” you say. Clarke’s inched herself closer, and you bump the tip of your nose to her temple. “But this is a good place to start.”

You feel it when she nods. “I know.”

She lets go of you, wandering back to turn off the lights while you make your way over towards the bed before you end up blind in darkness. The comforter is soft and giving when you fall onto it with a sigh, plush and freshly washed. Your legs are cold, but right now the exhaustion takes precedence, and you’re going to need all the rest you can get.

It’s a moment or two before Clarke joins you, drapes herself half across you, leg thrown over your waist. She nudges her cold nose against your neck, her breath warm, and makes herself comfortable.

“Why aren’t you under the covers?” she mutters a moment later.

“Why aren’t _you_?” you mutter back.

Clarke huffs, debates for what seems like minutes (tucked in next to you and too stubborn to move), and then hauls herself up to reach for the extra blanket at the end of the bed. She tugs it over you both and then plops unceremoniously in place again. pulling it up to your chins. She wiggles an arm around you, slipping her hand under your shirt, and her nails trail over your back. It makes you melt, the sensation causing this content hum to build in your throat.

“My family’s a little crazy,” Clarke whispers. “Just thought you should you know.”

You’re already falling asleep, the dull graze of nails working wonders, but you manage a response. “Aren’t they all? In some way.”

“More so than usual, I mean.”

You pull her closer. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been 84 years, sorry. struggling through a writers block that refuses to leave, but here's something that'll hopefully make up for it (pls excuse mistakes, I'll fix 'em as i see 'em) as always if there's something for this au that you'd like to see, hit me up in the comments or throw me an ask over @kokkoro on tumblr and i'll do a little something for it! hope you enjoy!

“I think we’re due for an upgrade soon,” Clarke tells you one afternoon, her voice soft among the late spring breeze. You look at her next to you, the sun warm and her smile warmer, and the kids chatter sounds far off and distant.

“Upgrade?”

“Yeah.” She gives a little shrug, looking back out over the playground and you follow her line of sight. There’s Jenna and Temple in the shade under the slide, their fingers dug into the dirt, grass stains on their knees. “A new swing, maybe. A nicer slide. A sand pit that has a little more sand.…”

You feel the smile long before it reaches your lips. “Sounds like you have something in mind.”

“Maybe,” she says.

“ _Maybe_ ,” you repeat, skeptical, and she smiles back.

 

* * *

 

She squeezes in next to you when the kids are gone. Pulls up a chair beside you behind your desk and the comfort you feel when you slip your hand into hers is second to none. The last rays of evening sun stumbles over the lines of your hands, crumbles into the shadows between your palms. It’s a softness you can’t believe is real.

“What do you think?”

“We don’t have the money for this, Clarke.” Your thumb passes lazily over her knuckles, eyes focused on the printouts in front of you. “I know you’re trying to help, but it’s just not the right time.”

“We could do a fundraiser. Make it a community thing.” She squeezes your hand and you look at her begrudgingly out of the corner of your eye. You’re all too familiar with the small teasing smile she gives you. “I know it might be hard to believe, but people really like this place--the _kids_ really like this place. Don’t you think we could do a lot more for it if we had help? Imagine what it could be...”

You don’t answer, looking back to the papers spread over your desk with a sigh. It’s not impossible. Nothing is. And if you were being honest, you believe there’s nothing Clarke can’t do.

“A fundraiser,” you acquiesce, an exhale.

“Yeah.” Clarke smiles. “The possibilities are endless.”

“You have to spend money to earn money.”

She shrugs. “Details.”

“The devil is in the details,” you shoot back and Clarke rolls her eyes

“I was thinking a bake sale,” she says instead, pointedly ignoring your pessimism, and your lips tilt a smidge upwards. “Or a car wash. Maybe even, I don’t know, a one time doggie daycare--”

“Amav is allergic,” you say, but god her smile is infectious.

“Alright so, no dogs. A minor setback, but that’s fine, we got this. There’s more ideas where that came from.” She nods to herself, this small little dip of her head, and you watch the familiar determined crease form between her brows.

It’s captivating in its simplicity, a telltale of the swirl of thoughts you’ll soon be privy to, and you listen because you love her. You watch her mouth and the way her nose scrunches thoughtfully as she tries to work through the problems by talking to you; her eyes and how they return to you, following this path from your eyes to your mouth to your hands.

If there’s a start, it might as well be here.

 

* * *

 

You decide on a bake sale. Something small to kickstart the ‘renovations’ as Clarke likes to call it and you figure a bake sale will facilitate enough money to, perhaps, upgrade the swings. Clarke makes a newsletter to send home to the parents and the response is overwhelming to say the least.

Clarke doesn’t stop grinning the entire day. You let her get away with it.

 

* * *

 

Your kitchen is a mess, but to say you didn’t see this coming is a lie. While you’re not the most prolific cook, experience has taught you that there’s a comfort ingrained somewhere between the potential simplicity and the step by step instructions of a cook book. Costia had been a connoisseur of interesting foods and that meant, if only by association, so were you. The fridge was always stocked, the cupboards full of spices hoarded from the farmer’s market, and the first and only true sign of evening had been the clink of kitchenware, pots boiling over on the stove.

The ritual had fallen away with her, as did other things following the incident, and it wasn’t something you ever had the intention of revisiting. But as you stand in the kitchen watching Clarke crack open eggs over a bowl of flour, the memories make a sudden and surprisingly welcome return.

For a while there’s nothing but the dull sound of the wooden spoon hitting the sides of the bowl as she mixes the ingredients together, idling while she runs a finger over the cookbook she has spread open next to bowl. She pauses, lips pursed, and taps her finger thoughtfully against the page, taking a moment to ponder before looking up. She finds you and smiles, gesturing with a small flick of her head. You watch her mouth move, focused on the curl of her lips, but the words don’t register. Not right away, and by then it’s already too late.

“Lexa,” you hear and her smile is evident in it.

“Hm?” you hum innocently, looking up from her lips. You try to ignore the knowing look on Clarke’s face, instead taking those few steps that brings you to her side.

“I was wondering,” she says slowly, teasing, spoon still in the bowl of cookie dough. You watch her fail to fight off a smile. “If you could get me the sugar.”

You lean in without pretense, kissing her softly there in your kitchen because it’s something you need to do. Her hand finds your cheek, cups it gently, cooking momentarily forgotten. It reminds you to savor it. All of it.

“I don’t count,” she whispers, lips soft against yours and this quiet laughter hanging in the back of her throat. It draws you in so easily.

“You should,” you reply, close and unwilling to move away.

“Aren’t you sweet.”

 

* * *

 

Friday morning is a lot like your kitchen: a mess. There’s flour still dusting the countertops, splatters of white and random little bits of eggshells. Dirty cookie sheets mock you from their spot on the oven, the remains left out overnight to harden and will no doubt be a thorn in your side later, but you don’t take much notice of it now.

There’s a peculiar urgency you become swept up in. Clarke’s a whirlwind as she sweeps through the apartment gathering the last few things for the bake sale. Hair half-done, shirt askew, and you catch her in the little bits in between, one button at a time. You tug the collar of her shirt level, sliding another button through, and she stands still as best she can before she’s swept up by something else.

She lets you steal kisses though. Or maybe it's more accurate to say she’s stealing them from you.

“Shit,” she mutters against your lips, pulling away. “Sorry. I forgot the… give me _two_ seconds.”

You manage the last button on her blouse before she slips away again, leaving you by yourself in the hall as she disappears into your bedroom. When she doesn’t return, you make your way back into the kitchen to wait, getting your coffee mugs ready for the road and covering the platters of cookies on the kitchen island in plastic wrap. Everything is more or less good to go when Clarke finally emerges and you can’t help the grin.

“Are you ready to go?”

She swipes her phone from the counter, stuffing it in her back pocket. “Yes, thank you.”

You make it with plenty of time, but it takes a few trips to the car and back until you have everything situated in your room. You put Clarke in charge of setting up the outdoor sign while you tackle the indoor setup. There’s a few fold-out tables you manage to wrestle into place. Anya helps you set up the coffee maker you borrowed from the break room with little travel cups and their lids stacked off to the side. It’s a neat little set-up. A bit rag-tag maybe, but neat.

The table fills out as the kids come in. There’s more cookies than you can count, tiny raspberry danishes, little red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a plate packed full of buckeyes, and a dessert made with khoya that Amav is more interested in keeping for himself (“it’s gulab jamun!” he tells you excitedly, and you repeat it back to make sure you’re pronouncing it correctly) among other things.

It's an event nearly four weeks in the making and looking at it now you’re still unsure what exactly to expect. You did what you could, put out flyers at all the popular places in town, sent out word on social media, and you know that nothing is guaranteed. At the worst, you’ll be subjected to eating sweets for the rest of the week, but looking at Clarke when she joins you and the kids situated in the lobby, waiting for what the day may bring, you hope things turn out for the better.

Luckily for your stomach, it does.

You have a little rush in the morning as people head to work. The breakfast items and some of the cookies go first, the coffee forever flowing, and time seems to fly by. Around early afternoon The old lady who lives down the street (and who has been around enough to know you long before you started officially working here) stops by and takes one of everything and a coffee to go.

“Keep the change,” she says, slipping you an extra ten. She gives you a wink, looking to you then Clarke and then nonchalantly back down at her purse as she stuffs everything back inside. Nothing you say makes her take the money back.

The kids like the new faces, they like helping and the excitement of it all, and on more than one occasion you slip them a few cookies from the backup table and tell them to keep it a secret. The pile dwindles fast, and if you were a betting girl, you’d say you weren’t the only one sneaking them snacks.

There’s a lull after lunch and you and Clarke take the time to reassess your situation. The kids finally eat something that isn’t half made of sugar and then you take them outside to work a bit of the excess energy that has built up since this morning while Anya helps Clarke run the bake sale. Even with them worked up, red in the cheeks from play, they’re eager to get back and help.

They last an hour before the yawns start and by the time pick up rolls around you know they’re ready for a good nap. To be honest, so are you.

“What’s for dinner?” Clarke asks, nudging you gently in the side with her elbow. There’s no one besides you two and Aden and Clarke’s voice has gone soft. A few leftover pastries are scattered over the remaining plates, the hum of the coffee machine a low and barely noticeable backdrop, and you look at her seated next to you and manage a tired smile.

“A good night’s sleep?” you say.

Clarke rolls her eyes, leaning into you. “I mean something I can actually put in my mouth.”

“Takeout?”

Clarke nods thoughtfully. “I can work with that.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke volunteers to pick up the takeout and drops you off at your apartment building, leaning over the center console to give you a kiss and a soft, “see you soon,” before pulling back out onto the road. You stand there for a little bit, watching as the red tail-lights of your car disappear around the corner and then a little bit longer because it’s easier to stand there than move.

You do though. Eventually. Turning away from the cool evening breeze to shuffle into your apartment building and up the flights of stairs to your home. You turn on the lights, wander over to the counter to scrub off as much caked-on residue from the cookie sheets before letting them soak in the sink while you shower.

You don’t take long (though Clarke would say otherwise) and by the time you’re toweling your hair you hear the familiar sound of Clarke rummaging through the kitchen. You run a hand through your hair, ruffling the knots away as you nudge the door open wider with your shoulder.

Clarke’s by the island, already changed into comfy clothes and nearly through a small plate of lo mein and an open container of egg rolls. She looks up from her chopsticks and smiles, little bits of rice falling back onto the plate she holds in her right hand. “Hey.”

“Hey to you too.”

“I got chinese,” she says with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “Do you want some?”

“I’m good,” you reply, watching her. There’s something indescribable in the simplicity of this moment. “Thank you, though.”

Clarke nods and looks away, a slight blush spreading across her cheeks as she finishes off the last few piles of rice. She sets her plate down in the sink with the cookie sheets. “I also maybe got some paints, too?” She glances at you over her shoulder before her attention returns to the plate she washes quickly and then deposits in the other sink. “You know, for fun or whatever.”

When she finally turns to you, the look on Clarke’s face can only be described as hopeful and you stand there in the middle of the hall dressed for a quiet night in after a hectic week. It’s certainly not what you had in mind but–

“And this paint’s supposed to go where?”

“On you?” Clarke says, the slightest inflection in her voice as she begins to second guess herself. She gives a little shrug of her shoulders, looking over at the plastic bag on the island. “Only if you want. I thought it might be relaxing, you know?”

You watch her run her hand through her hair and that embarrassed blush high across her cheeks makes the butterflies in your chest come alive. Clarke could weasel you into almost anything and you figure she’s due for a little teasing. It emboldens you and you reach for the edges of your loose t-shirt. “Right now?”

Her throat bobs, swallowing, and her voice is a pitch too high when she says, “whenever.”

Clarke doesn’t look away when you pull the shirt over your head, leaving you in nothing but those worn red boy-shorts in the middle of the hall. You smile when her eyes linger on your breasts, stumble down to your stomach, the shirt dangling in your hand, and then finally back up to your face. She smiles back at you.

“Where do you want me?”

“The bed,” she says without pause. “Just let me grab a few things?”

Your cheeks hurt. “Whatever you need, Clarke.”

You hear the clinking of glasses and the running tap as you settle yourself on the cool sheets of your bed. You pillow your head on your arms, breathing out slowly and you feel the tenseness begin to ease from your body long before Clarke pads into the room. She’s pulled her hair up, collected the curls into a messy bun, and in the dim light of the lamp by the bedside you’ve never seen anything as pretty as her.

Clarke sets a paper plate, some rags, and a low, shallow bowl of water by your side and then crawls onto the the bed with you, settling herself on your lower back once she’s sure nothing will tip. You can’t help the low groan you let out at the weight.

She combs her fingers through your hair, brushing it over your shoulder and out of the way. “You’re not already asleep on me are you?”

“I would never,” you mutter into your arms and then the first tender pass of her hands travels the length of your back, fingers digging gently into the muscles there. You hum at the feeling, deep in your throat, and everything but the touch of Clarke’s hands melts away. Your eyes are closed before you know it. “Please don’t get any paint on the bed.”

Clarke laughs softly. She shifts her weight, leaning forward to place a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Details.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the first cold touch of Clarke’s fingers meeting the middle of your back. It's long broad strokes with her thumb, the pressure consistent and unhurried. You don’t linger in the details and neither does she.

“I borrowed them,” she says finally. In the quietness it seems out of place and she shifts slightly back on your legs. “From the kids. Perfectly sheet and skin safe. I don’t think they’ll miss them.”

“That’s daycare property, Clarke,” you mumble.

“I’ll make up for it,” she replies, this gentle amusement in her voice. The room goes quiet shortly after as Clarke falls deeper into her work and you’re more than content to lie there under Clarke’s hands.

You doze off, mind blissfully blank and your muscles jello. Clarke doesn’t say anything, but when you shift unconsciously an indiscernible amount of time later, you feel her hands at your waist. Her fingers are cold from the paint and it’s enough to bring you back, steadying you.

“I think you did really great today,” she says and your hear the ripple of water as she rinses the paint from her hands in the bowl.

You clear your throat, adjusting your head to alleviate the ache in your neck. “ _You_ did great today. This wouldn’t have been if not for you, Clarke.”

Her hands return to your hips and there's an insecurity in them that makes you tense, but a moment later you feel her lips soft against the base of your neck. “You absolute softy." Her breath is warm and you feel the beginnings of a shiver take hold at the base of your spine. "Take the goddamn compliment.”

“It’s nothing if not the truth.”

Clarke sighs. “I love you. You know that right?”

Your smile is half hidden in your arms. “Is there anything I don’t know, love?”

The noise that escapes Clarke’s throat is somewhere between a groan and a laugh and she gives your butt a light slap. The sting it causes is nearly nonexistent, more exasperated endearment than actual chastisement, but you allow Clarke a few moments of peace before retaliating. You push yourself over, taking Clarke with you and even though it’s slow and careful, it's enough of a surprise to startle her from stopping you. Clarke lands with a huff on her back among the blankets and luckily for you the shallow bowl of stained water remains upside right.

There’s a little bit of blue paint smudged on her cheek, hair wispy in it’s haphazard bun, curly from being contained. She observes you lying next to her with mild amusement and you watch her eyes. A warmth settles in your chest and you tighten your arm around her waist, pulling her closer. You press your lips to the underside of her jaw, her neck.

“The paint...”

After one last kiss you pull away, propping yourself up on your forearm. “You said it was sheet safe,” you say with a teasing quirk to your brow. “Were you lying?”

Clarke shakes her head, her hand at your bare waist. “No, it is.”

You lean back in for another kiss and Clarke melts into it. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”


End file.
